Pens
were made
to remind me
that I still have something
to hold on to.

Pages
do exist
to make me understand
that they lived
for me to continue.

Words
are there
to show to me
that I am not alone.

Poetry
has its own ways
of telling me
that I am home.

You are my cup of coffee.

   I love your hypnotizing smell
   I love your alluring countenance
   I love your warmth
   I love your taste lying on my tongue
   and left something on my lips
   causing me to lose my senses.

You are my cup of coffee
and I want you all to myself.

If I'll read a book
and its pages could talk
I would be thankful
for all they did
was to take me to a paradise
I've never been before;
And if pages could talk
would they beg for me
to go back and read from the beginning
when I'm almost at the end?
Because I think they knew
the feeling of being lonely, ignored
and being hugged by the dust
and wait for a small chance
for them to be flipped again...

we were once broken
like how the storm fought the sky
bleeding and wounded;
but fate brought us together
to heal ourselves—to find home.